Page 85 - Rainbow County and Other Stories

Wild Blue Yonder 73

William Blake’s “Thel”:
On My Back to the Future
through the Tunnel of Love...

Wild Blue Yonder

Inch for inch, pound for pound, Big Boyd Grymkowski was the
best buddy a flyjockey could want back in those bombs-away days
when our lives depended on each other in the United States Air
Corps. Boyd was the aviator, the pilot, the captain, the jock, the
stud. He even had a girl back stateside. Sweet Lorraine.
I was his ball-turret gunner, squished like a human booger
into the all-glass nose of his airplane. He called me that. His
“Booger.” Wrapping his big arm around my neck. Giving my
crewcut head a, wow, ow, dutch rub with his big knuckles, asking
me, “What’s an air cock?” Shoving me down between his thighs,
dropping his big stud dick into my willing mouth. High in the
skies over Europe, we were higher than any high-wire act without
a net those last days of WWII whistling “Booger Wooger Bugle
Boy,” because that was the nickname we strong-armed our flight
crew into painting real bold behind the nose of our plane, them
not knowing the real “Booger” joke or how it was between Big
Boyd and me.
I remember one of our last times together, me and Boyd,
heading out before dawn across the wet tarmac, outside in the last
deepest dark before the French dawn, ahead of the other flyboys,
who were still combing their wet hair, acting in the mirrors like
they were God’s fucking gift, which most of them were, since
you measure a flyer by his groomed looks, his attitude, his build,
and the size of his cock, which every Joe knows, always side-
glancing in the showers, sneaking peeks for the biggest cock of the
walk, always hoping you won’t be the peewee. Not that anybody

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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